Fathers and Sons
by Mokibobolink
Summary: A story about Dean and John some time after Sam went off to college. Dean and John are a fearsome team together but will John ever allow Dean to hunt on his own? Hurt!John, Hurt!Dean, angst - COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_Hi folks. This here is my first Supernatural fic. This probably won't have a lot of Sam, nothing against Sam but in re-watching the end of season 1 and beginning of season 2, I found myself fascinated by the story of John and Dean. Two separate times they were "alone" (before Sam was born and then when Sam went to college )and I found that I wanted to explore that relationship._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters, they belong to Mr Kripke. I am merely borrowing them for the moment._

But why not? Dean asked his father angrily. The young man had been pacing the hospital room for the past few minutes and John sort of wished he'd stop. John's shoulder was horribly sore from where the angry spirit had grabbed him and watching his sons pacing steps going back and forth across the small hospital room hurt like hell.

"Dean, sit down for a minute," John said finally and instantly his son obeyed, occupying the only chair in the room. His firstborn might occasionally try to rebel but he was proud to see that he still followed a direct order. With the kind of life that they led, following orders could mean a difference between life and death.

"Look, I know you want to go after this thing but we can't," John said. "I know that I've continued hunting with injuries, but this," he indicated his beaten body, "it's a little too much. Even for me."

Dean looked at his father, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His green eyes were intense and the restless energy he had from moments before was still evident even though he was now stuck in a chair.

"But sir," Dean began and John didn't miss the note of respect that was being added in just those few words. "We can't just let this one go, can we? This thing has already killed three people and you and I both know that by tomorrow night there will be at least one more, if not two."

John sighed. He did know that, of course he knew that. There just wasn't much he could do from a hospital bed. He ran his one good hand through his hair and then let it drop to the bed in a hopeless gesture. He had wanted to save those people. That was what he did. That's what he'd trained his sons (both of his sons) to do. But this time they were going to have to accept defeat.

He hadn't told Dean of course but when he'd sent him out for his things earlier, John had tried to call for backup. Trouble was that none of the hunters he could get ahold of would be able to make it in time. That damn ghost had such a particular schedule and Dean was right about one thing, by the next night that window would be closed.

John had never told Dean or Sam about the other hunters out in the world. It had always been yet another way for him to protect his boys. John hoped that someday (once THE demon had been destroyed) maybe, just maybe, his boys could go on to a normal life. While he knew that Sam would be able to do that very easily (as was evidenced by the fact that his youngest had had no problem in leaving to go to college not that long ago), for Dean it would be harder.

His eldest son had taken to hunting so easily and did it so well that John was afraid that if he knew that there were other people out there who did this, in fact an entire network of people who did this, Dean may not ever give it up. No, John didn't want that so he kept other hunters from his boys and he kept his boys away from other hunters. He knew people thought he was crazy for doing it but he was long passed caring what other people thought of him or how he did things. If doing something that someone else thought was "strange" bothered him, he'd never started hunting demons in the first place. As long as it kept his family safe, people could think about him any damn way they pleased.

If he had been able to call in a replacement, he would have made sure to leave right away so that Dean would never see. He'd have faked being sicker or maybe made up a story about Sam being in trouble. Either lie would have worked as he knew his eldest would do anything to protect his old man or his baby brother. John hated to admit it but he used those instincts of Dean's when he had to. He wasn't proud of it but he always told himself that he would only resort to that kind of subterfuge when it was absolutely necessary.

"Dean, you're right but I can't fight in this condition. I mean I know I'm a tough old bird but even I'm ready to admit defeat on this one. You're not gonna blame your old man for walking away from a fight in this condition are you?" John smiled at his son as he indicated the bandages, the sling on his arm and the tubes connecting him to various machines by the bed.

The smile, as always, was enough to lift Dean's spirits and John was rewarded by a magnetic grin in return from Dean. _Damn that kid can smile when he wants to_, John thought, _too bad we hardly ever see it, _he though to himself briefly. The fact that his own smile had the same affect on his son, never even entered John's head.

"Yeah, I guess not. Sorry dad, guess I'm just worn out,' Dean said finally and John could hear that he'd given up the fight but maybe just for the moment. Running his hand through his hair in a gesture very much like the one his father had done moments before, Dean said "Why don't we both try and get some rest?"

"Son, that's the best idea you've had all night. You wanna head back to the motel?" John asked though he already knew the answer. He'd have to kick him out to get food, let alone go all the way back to the motel.

"No, I'll stay here with you until they kick me out." Dean replied and promptly leaned back into the chair where he sat and closed his eyes. John smiled at his son and shook his head. Dean's fierce protective instinct was very easy to predict and sometimes a little stifling (again it never occurred to John that Dean could say the same thing about him). Though right now he didn't mind at all and found it very comforting to have Dean with him. He hadn't wanted to get into an argument about giving up the current hunt but he hadn't seen any way around it. He knew that Dean would have a problem with it but what else, really, could they do?

A sigh caught his ear and John looked over and watched his slumbering son. He realized with a start that it had been awhile since he'd actually _looked_ at Dean. He wasn't feeble minded enough to see nothing but a small child any longer but he did have to admit to himself that he hadn't really been able to get past seeing his firstborn as a gawky teenager in a while.

But the truth was that Dean was actually not too much younger than he himself had been when Dean was born. He certainly hadn't felt like a child at that age and he was starting to think it wasn't fair to think of Dean that way either.

He remembered the night Dean was born and the thought brought a myriad of emotions coursing through him. At the time John had thought that nothing would scare him more than that. Little did he know what kinds of horrors the future would bring.

But still that night he had been frightened, frightened by the lack of control he had over the situation and also in the knowledge that soon a life would be coming that would be his responsibility.

Mary had opted to go without painkillers and whoever had said that women were the weaker sex had never sat by a woman who was going through childbirth. He had been amazed by the strength his wife had shown while the contractions had wracked her body steadily, growing ever stronger.

But then once it had been time for her to push she had been so exhausted that she couldn't even sit up on her own. John had climbed onto the bed behind his wife, lending his strength to hers to bring their child into the world. As she had leaned back against his chest he had actually felt her body tense with each convulsion of the uterine muscles. She had grabbed both of his hands for dear life and he had been sure that she would break them, despite having hands half his size.

Then suddenly the baby was there and John knew for certain that his life, their lives, would never be the same again.

He and Mary had shared some tears as Dean was handed into her arms. He had nursed hungrily right away and even the nurses had commented that they'd never seen such an eater. They said most babies would eat a little and then fall right to sleep, but not Dean. John smiled to himself with the thought that even then Dean's true personality showed itself right from the start. If he'd only known then how that boy would one day nearly eat him out of house and home, John thought with a smile.

Finally after awhile Mary had drifted off to sleep and John had taken his new son to a rocking chair in the corner of the room. He never knew how long he had sat there, communing with the newest member of his very happy family. He had looked at the little fingers and toes, counted them even, had watched as his child had looked at him with huge eyes.

John had softly talked to his new son, introducing himself and letting him know that he and Mary were his parents. He had always thought that children should never be treated as dumb little idiots but instead as what they really were: big souls in little bodies. So he had spoken to Dean as he would anyone else and stopped when the exhausted (and full, finally) infant had fallen into a deep slumber. Dad hadn't been far behind son and Mary awoke to find them like that a few hours later, both fast asleep in the rocking chair.

Dean had been daddy's little boy from day one and though he loved his momma fiercely it was daddy whom he sought out whenever he could. John remembered watching as his sturdy little son had first learned to walk and proceeded to follow him everywhere around the house, his little feet beating a fast "rat tat tat" behind John's slower, often boot-clad, steps.

His little boy had learned to walk at a fairly early age, showing then that he was a do-er not a thinker. While Sam had been almost text-book in his development, from talking to walking, Dean always seemed to try to be ahead of the curve. John and Mary had to simply decide to stop being worried about him and the constant bumps and scrapes he bore as silent testimony to his almost insatiable need to do things; sometimes before his little body was ready to do them.

Dean had been fascinated to watch John do almost anything and emulated him whenever he could. One day he had been getting ready for work and while shaving had heard the familiar little footsteps run into the bathroom. Dean came running into the bathroom, just having woken up, his hair going in all directions and still wearing his favorite Scoody Doo footie pajamas. Now as a big strong man John was officially offended that his wife dared to dress his son in those things. That was his official position. But as a dad? As a dad he thought the sight of little Dean pitter pattering around in those footie things was just about the cutest darn thing he'd ever seen.

He had looked down at his son, a small cut visible above his right eye from his latest hard won lesson: not to run on a wet kitchen floor. Mary's warning yell had done nothing to stop Dean, in fact John was sure that his son _waited _for her to tell him not to do things, just so he could try them and see what all the fuss was about

The two year old had watched wide eyed as John smeared the shaving cream on his face and then carefully applied the razor. After a minute of this rapt attention John had laughed and picked up his son, standing him on the toilet seat next to the sink.

"Wanna try it?" John had asked and Dean had nodded solemnly.

Not stupid enough to even think of giving his toddler a razor, John quickly came up with an alternate. He asked Mary for a plastic spoon and kissed her when she gave it to him, smiling as she giggled at the shaving cream still on his cheek.

He then proceeded to pour some of the shaving gel on Dean's hands and watched as his sons eyes grew even wider as the gel quickly expanded into a white foam. John did the same in his own hand and then showed his son how to put it on his face. Dean followed suit and soon father and son looked like a matched set of Santa Clauses; extra large and mini sized.

John then applied the razor to his own face and Dean copied each stroke, scraping the foam off carefully with the little plastic spoon.

Mary came in a few minutes later with the Polaroid and snapped a quick photo of the two men in her life, covered in shaving cream and laughing as it got all over the bathroom floor. That picture had stayed in his wallet as one of his favorites for many years.

John had never had anyone around who not only watched but emulated everything he did like that and found it sometimes unnerving but mostly downright flattering. He couldn't help it, when your child looked at you like you could do no wrong; it took away all the bad things in the world.

John's musings into the past were interrupted by a soft snore and he was brought back to the present. The young man sleeping in the chair idly by his bed bore little resemblance to the little one he had taught to shave that day. But the look in Dean's eyes whenever he watched his father (loading a gun, melting silver into bullets) was the same.

It made him hate the idea of ever letting him down; which made John wonder if he was letting Dean down now. His eldest wanted so badly to follow in his father's footsteps and John had spent the last nearly twenty years teaching him to do exactly that. What had he been training Dean for if not to do exactly what he'd begged him to do only hours earlier?

His son wasn't a child anymore and there was no doubt that John wouldn't rather have anyone else watching his back on a hunt. Didn't that mean Dean was ready to handle a job on his own?

He looked down at his body, the cast on his arm, bandages wrapping his broken ribs. There was no way he could finish the job, not for a while. But those people needed help and they needed it faster than he could provide it. It wasn't like Dean would be alone, not really, as John would be there to guide him the whole way. He was starting to talk himself into the idea, growing to like the sound of it as he realized they could save some lives.

Necessity may have just brought Dean his chance at what he'd been waiting for a long time: his first solo hunt.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two weeks earlier….._

The silence of the forest's dark night was suddenly ruined by the noise of two bodies running roughly through it. Two men were running as if the Devil himself were at their very heels and he might as well have been for what was after them was probably not much better. They shoved branches and leaves out of their way haphazardly, not caring what was torn or broken. The trees almost seemed to fight back at the terrible intruders, their branches catching on clothing and ripping into the flesh of the men who dared to upset the normal calm of the night.

"Did you see it? Did you see it?" John Winchester's voice was tight with worry and frustration. They'd been after this thing for over a week now and now that they were ready to torch its bones, the damn thing had come out for one final hurrah.

"Yeah," Dean had run ahead of his father and now doubled back. "It was headed west, 10 yards past that tree line,' he pointed where he'd last seen it and John immediately started running again, his bow held ready in his hands. Taking an extra moment to almost, but not quite, catch his breath, the son followed the father back into battle. _Jeesh, Dad can still run._ Dean thought as he rushed to catch up.

John heard his son behind him then suddenly stopped as he caught sight of something bright up ahead. Without a word, he signaled to Dean to head out in a flanking maneuver. John had taught his boys military hand signals at a very early age. In fact he could almost swear that Sam's first words had been with his hands, his youngest mimicking what he'd seen his father and older brother doing.

Dean nodded, the moonlight catching the slight motion of his head for his father to see. Then the two of them slowly parted ways, John heading straight for the light source though off slightly to the left, while Dean did the same except slightly to the right. They were going to cut off any and all escape routes and take this thing out once and for all. Both of them moved with a silent stealth seen only in the best of hunters. Their feet making hardly any sound despite the forest's deep bed of dried leaves and branches that would have caused the footfalls of any other men to sound like a children's tap dancing class.

Both men carried bows, the arrows in their quivers (and those already in their hands, ready to fire) bearing small bags of rock salt. Only a bulls-eye would do it, but when those arrows were fired straight through their quarry, it would dissipate the spirit. The arrows were slow but with the kinds of shots that Dean and John were, they almost always hit their mark.

As John got closer to the light source, he confirmed that it was indeed what they were hunting. From the other side of the trees, he knew that Dean would know it by now as well. There was no need for either of them to speak, they knew what to do and knew what the other was doing at each second. They had fought like this, side by side, for so long that their movements took on a quality of instinct. Other partners probably had similar feelings, knowing the moves and even thoughts of the other without any need for communication. But with John and Dean it went further than that. Father and son, firstborn son at that; it's what made them closer than any other hunting partnership could ever be.

The creature shifted position and turned its head, seemingly looking for the two pithy beings that dared to disturb it. It knew that it was being hunted but didn't care. This was all part of the fun. The same kind of fun that was killing people, the people who dared to come into IT'S forest, dared to tread on the ground where it had lived long ago. Hearing their screams, watching their flesh burn; that was all part of the fun. These two would be no different.

The creature hissed as it felt the presence of one of the men draw closer. Any semblance to humanity was nearly gone from its features and the sound came out like nothing less than an animal. Though animals at least belonged on Earth; they were part of the natural order of things. This thing had no such claims to the world. Suddenly it lunged at the one closest to it, ready to wreak havoc upon the flesh of the creature, looking forward to the feel of the flesh beneath its claw-like hands.

"Dean!" John yelled and Dean was on the ground in an instant, the reaction to his father's yell so akin to instinct that he was on the forest floor almost before he actually formed the thought that brought him there. He felt rather than saw the creature streak past the spot where he had stood and heard its angry screech as it failed to decimate its chosen target.

"Not so fast you bastard," John grunted, pulling his bowstring tight and taking careful yet swift aim, he fired. The arrow, with its precious cargo of rock salt, sailed far and true. Hitting the spirit dead center in the chest (in point of fact, it went through the creature's chest). The thing gave one last angry cry before dissipating in a puff of white mist.

"Nice shot, Dad," Dean said, coming up behind his father and slapping the dirt from his jeans and jacket. His own bow had been ready but unnecessary as the shot from John's had done the trick.

"Yeah well let's not count our chickens before they hatch, son." John was carefully surveying the area around them, mindful of the spirit's return. There was no doubt it would be back (rock salt would only keep them at bay for a short while) it was just a matter of _when_ it would be back.

"Right," Dean agreed, quickly removing the pack he had carried on his back the whole time and digging through it for the supplies they would need. He pulled out matches, lighter fluid and finally a fairly good sized bag of rock salt.

John quickly took up the position of look-out, allowing his son to prepare the grave for the burning ritual. For that is what they came there to do and the spirit had of course led them right where they needed to be – the site where its body had been dumped. The thing, the creature, had in fact once been a man; a man who had found himself on the wrong side of the law in a time where one didn't want to be on the wrong side of the law. He had been hung from a nearby tree and his body simply left to rot near its roots.

It was the tree now where people, innocent people, found their end these days. The woods had been private property for nearly a hundred years and then development had started nearby. Suddenly there were people taking walks in the woods, laughing and enjoying themselves, not realizing the secret that lay beneath its branches. Then one day people simply started disappearing. That's when John discovered the problem and now was here with his son to finish it once and for all.

Dean had pulled out a folding shovel and began digging around the roots of the tree, he quickly hit pay dirt and his shovel chinked against something solid. Digging around the rest of the way with his hands, he unearthed the nearly one hundred year old skeleton. Sitting back on his heels and wiping the sweat away from his eyes with the back of one hand, he surveyed what he had found.

"Well, there he is. Guess it's time for you to go sleepy-time for good now." Dean grabbed the rock salt and began pouring it generously over the stark bones.

"Make sure you cover the whole thing," John said automatically. Somewhere inside he knew that Dean knew exactly what he was doing, this was _his_ son after all. But the father, the mentor, the drill instructor, all of these people inside of him insisted that he constantly teach his son the right way things needed to be done. A lesson not learned in this line of work could mean not going home that night. So he taught. He taught even though he knew it sometimes drove his son a little crazy (though truthfully he hardly ever got complaints from Dean, not like he had with Sam) he still did it. He always felt that it was better to have an angry son than a dead one.

"Got it," Dean said, dumping the last of the salt on the remains. John looked over his shoulder and inspected Dean's work surreptitiously and was pleased to see the evenness of the placement. Knowing that Dean had done the job perfectly and would finish it that way as well, he turned his attention back to the forest.

As it turned out, it was none too soon as the spirit suddenly appeared again before him. Raising its arms and screeching in anger, it made to grab John by the throat.

"Dad!"

This time it was the son's yell that sent the father to the ground. The moment he'd heard the screech, Dean had dove for his bow and rolled quickly to a kneeling position. He lined up his shot, right over his father's shoulder, and after yelling to send his father to the ground, fired. Again the spirit found itself smacked with rock salt and again it dissipated. Putting down the bow and looking around carefully to make sure it hadn't returned, Dean had a fleeting thought, _Damn, I wish we could actually shoot these things with something other than a bow. It just seems so slow_.

"Nice shot Dean," John said, smiling as he picked himself up out of the dirt and dusted himself off. Walking over to where the corpse lay, he picked up Dean's discarded box of matches.

"What do ya say, we get rid of thing?" John asked, handing the matches to his son with a grin. The hunt was nearly over, he could feel it, and it made him happy. Sometimes it was the only time John felt truly happy; after he'd destroyed something evil.

"My pleasure," Dean said, putting his bow over his shoulder and taking the matches proffered by his father. He lit one easily and threw it down onto the bones, the lighter fluid catching the flame easily and the night breeze breathing the flames into larger life.

John and Dean stood there a while in silence, watching the flames as they danced over the skeleton. Any normal human being should have been disgusted by such a sight, but not John and Dean. To them this sight meant that their hard work was complete. It meant that innocent people no longer would die. It meant that they had done their job; THE job.

Once the bones had been reduced to nothing but ash, Dean picked up his shovel once again and this time buried the remains for good. Picking up Dean's pack, John handed it to his son and together they headed back out of the woods. The difference between their entrance into this area and their exit couldn't have been more extreme. Where once they had come running frantically into the clearing, crashing through the trees. Now they walked in weary silence. There was no need to be cautious now and both of them could actually feel the difference in the place. Even the people who lived nearby would notice it. They wouldn't understand it, wouldn't know how it happened, wouldn't even thank the two tired men who had brought it about, but they would notice it. They would simply chalk it up to a good rain or maybe even the power of prayer (which John had no problem with, truth be told), but no one would understand the work that went in to saving their lives.

Getting back to the car, John pulled out the keys and then on a whim tossed them at Dean. Without breaking stride and again without a single word between them, Dean caught the keys easily and smiled his gratitude. He loved driving his dad's car and was grateful for any opportunity his father gave him to do so.

Dean gunned the engine, enjoying the feel of her response to his every whim as the Impala raced out onto the highway. John almost said something to his son about driving more carefully or saving gas but remembering how well Dean had done on the hunt, decided to let it go. Instead he sat back in the passenger seat and relaxed, knowing the long drive that they had ahead of them.

For it was a long standing policy with John Winchester that once you were finished with a job, you left town. Once it was done and the people were safe, you left. Barring the ever present risk of injuries that could send one of them to a hospital, or at the very least put them in bed for a day or two, they left town immediately. Knowing that they were going to salt and burn bones that night (the end to most of their jobs), both men had packed their bags and thrown them into the trunk before heading out to the woods. They had checked out of their motel on the way out that night and once they put the current town well into their rearview mirror, would find a new town and yet another motel.

There they would start the routine again; looking through newspaper articles and listening to the police radio broadcasts for anything unusual that might call for men of their talent.

Dean drove for a while and finally after a couple hours John looked up from the book he'd been studying to catch him grinning happily from ear to ear. Unable to help himself, he decided to have a bit of fun with his eldest.

"You need me to take over, son?" John asked, doing his best not to grin too broadly. He could see that Dean had been lost in his own world and the sound of his father's voice brought him cruelly back to reality.

"No!...uh, I mean no thanks Dad, I got it," Dean cleared his throat nervously. He heard his father chuckle and looked over to see him smiling into his book.

"Very funny," Dean said, looking back at the road. "So what have we got, Dad?"

John looked at his book for a few more moments before closing it finally and looking out the window thoughtfully. They had stopped briefly at a gas station and John, already eager for the next job, had picked up various newspapers from towns within the general area. He had started researching some of the incidents, comparing them to things he already knew, stuff he'd heard from other hunters and even pulled out one of his books for some extra details. After dismissing a couple stories outright as nothing more than the work of sick and twisted humans, he'd settled on one that looked like it could be their kind of job.

"Looks like those deaths in New Hampshire might be our kind of thing after all," John replied, looking over at Dean briefly. "I wasn't sure there was a pattern but according to something I found in one of my research books, I think they match a summer solstice moon cycle but only once every ten years"

"How long does the creature, whatever it is, stay active during that time?" Dean asked curiously. Creatures that worked on specific cycles could be the hardest to catch as they not only killed on a cycle; they also appeared and disappeared on them too. If this thing killed once every ten years but was only active for one or two nights, that would make their job that much harder.

"Near as I can tell they do the most damage for about ten days and then they're gone." John replied.

"And it started two days ago?" Dean asked, remembering what his father had said when he'd read the article out loud to him about an hour ago.

"And it started two days ago" John confirmed, nodding his head.

"Well we should be there by tomorrow" Dean said, taking his foot off the gas lightly and slowing down to something that more closely resembled the speed limit. They were approaching a town and his keen eye had spotted the sheriff's cruiser parked in the tree line. _They're not gonna get us that easy,_ Dean thought.

"Son it's nearly 3:00am, why don't you pull over at the next motel you see and let's get some rest," John said. They had been pushing hard for nearly twenty four straight hours and even though they were already on a tight schedule with this thing, he knew well enough not to push either himself or his son any harder. Not that John was afraid to push either of them hard, he just knew when it was time to let up a bit. Now was that time.

"Yes sir," Dean replied and immediately began looking for a motel; a place that would be their next "home" – at least for a few days anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey folks,_

_Sorry for the long delay on this one but I'm making good on my New Year's resolution to finish it by the end of the 2008 – heck, I even did it a couple days early. _

_For those of you wondering what's happening with Demon Seed I ask for a tad more patience. In addition to this story and the NCIS one I just posted, I have one more that I promised myself I would finish before doing anything new. _

_And now on with the story, I hope y'all like it…._

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Chapter Three

Dean yawned and stretched mightily. He slowly came awake as the previous night's activities ran through his head some like some old film. Looking around at the cramped motel room he remembered that they were in yet another new town.

"'bout time," a voice said somewhere behind him and Dean rolled over to find his father sitting at the one small table in the room. He was surrounded by books and papers, most of which bore his atrocious handwriting in what could only be described as cryptic notes. To Dean it looked like the man hadn't slept at all.

"So were you planning on sleeping all day or did you maybe want to go to work sometime?" John asked with a smirk. He twiddled his pen absently and shuffled a few of his notes, putting the pen in his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean groaned and sat up slowly, rubbing his face with his hands and trying his best to wake up fully. He stole a glance at the bedside clock and saw that it was only 9:00am – which meant that he'd slept maybe five hours, tops. Considering the fact that they were already on a new case, that was actually more than he probably should have slept. His father must have taken pity on him after driving almost the whole night

"Find anything new?" Dean asked as he swung his legs out of bed and noted that the other bed was still made though there was an indentation in the comforter. He hoped to hell that his father had at least lain down for a little while. Not that he had any reason to fear that his dad's reflexes would suffer from lack of sleep (they never did) but he hated it when his dad didn't take better care of himself.

"Yep," John replied. "Looks like we're dealing with a spirit."

"Really?" Dean asked curiously. Usually it took them a day or two to figure out if the thing causing trouble was a creature, a spirit, a demon or some other type of thing coughed up out of Hell. "How do you know?"

"The local paper was very resourceful," John said and held up said paper for his son to see. Clear as a bell across the front page was a headline: _Woman sees vision of man with axe – are the ghost stories true?_

"So these people know that the ghost is killing people?"

"I wouldn't go that far. This article is completely separate from the one about the murders but I'm starting to think that they're connected."

"Yeah, that's too much of a coincidence," Dean agreed, heading for the shower. When he came back out he found his father right where he'd left him, still going through books and taking notes.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" John replied, without looking up.

"I know you're enjoying looking at those very interesting books but how about we get some breakfast? I'm starving."

"When are you NOT starving?" John asked grumpily, but with a tinge of pride in his voice. For some reason, he was oddly proud of the fact that his son could pack away more food than a Siberian Husky….one who hadn't eaten for a week.

The two men headed for the local diner (there was always a local diner near a cheap motel, it was a national rule), John bringing along the newspaper and a couple books. He handed one of the volumes to Dean as soon as they had placed their order.

"See if you can find anything in here that might match what we're looking for in this town."

Dean obediently began paging through the book, not sure what he was looking for but keeping in mind one of his father's many rules and just using his gut to see if anything jumped out from the worn pages.

"I thought you said it was an angry spirit?" Dean queried after a while, still fingering pages. The question was out of pure curiosity and John could feel that Dean just wanted to learn more about his chosen craft. It was yet another difference between his eldest and his youngest. The same question coming from Sam would have sounded accusatory. Not so with Dean.

"I did. But since we actually haven't laid eyes on it yet I thought it would be better to be safe than sorry. The once-every-ten-years bit is kinda unusual for a spirit. Maybe we're dealing with something else here." 

Dean nodded and went back to studying the book. He absorbed the information from his father like a dry sponge took in water. It filled his every pore, his entire being. Every small comment made was just another piece of data for Dean to process, most of which he did without even realizing he was doing it. Then one day when he needed it (and Dean had been on enough jobs now to realize that he would need everything his father ever told him, it was just a matter of when), the information would resurface and probably not only save Dean's life, but probably someone else's as well.

Dean and John studied diligently in silence for the next few minutes. But as soon as their food arrived, Dean's demeanor changed immediately and he put down the book and started eating with gusto.

"Jesus, kid," John said after a few minutes of watching Dean eat like he hadn't seen food in years. "You wanna choke? The food's not going anywhere," John couldn't help the slight chuckle that came with that sentence.

"Whamf?" Dean replied, with his mouth so full that his father wondered how he'd even been able to get that much out. Swallowing finally as he finished the last bite. He looked at John's plate (still over half full) and looked up hopefully. "You gonna finish that?"

John shook his head and laughed, pushing his plate over to the never-ending gut also known as his son. "Where do you put all that?" he asked wonderingly, shaking his head.

"I dunno," Dean replied with a grin and a shrug, smiling through yet another mouthful. "Guess I have a great metabolism. Must be good genes in the family."

John laughed at that.

Once they finished up at the diner, the two hunters decided to check out what information they could get out of the local morgue. John posed as a professor from a small private school out of state (Dean was one of "Mr. Johnson's" star pupils and his Teacher's Aide this semester). They weren't able to get too far until a young (and female) technician came on duty.

John wasn't sure when (or how for that matter) Dean's talent with the opposite sex showed itself but once he realized how well it worked, they used it whenever they could. So once John saw that the technician was clearly taken with Dean, he surreptitiously made himself scarce and went to the other side of the room. Dean knew what they needed to do and now that he had someone to charm the information out of, John knew they'd get what they needed in no time.

Pretending to look at some of the books that lined the many shelves in the morgue's office, he kept half an ear on the conversation and smiled more than once at his son's prowess. Lying unfortunately was part of a hunter's game, both to get much-needed, vital information and also to protect the innocent from knowing about the horrors that went bump in the night. It was part of the gig.

John had taught both his boys how to lie and not just little itty bitty lies either. Full on big fat lies the likes of which most people never saw. And he had to admit, his son was damn good at it too. Funny how other parents would see that as something odd, but not he. Not that he allowed lies to be told to him, not by a long shot. But watching Dean right then, it was hard not to be proud of the doozy he was laying on the technician at that moment.

After a few minutes, Dean waved him over.

"Professor," Dean said. "Sheila here has agreed to give us a copy of the most recent coroner's report so we can take a closer look at it."

"Great, thank you." John said to the young girl, but Sheila never turned her eyes away from Dean. She was positively beaming from his attention.

Deciding to get out while they were ahead, the two men left the morgue and took the folders back with them to the hotel. There they proceeded to go over each and every detail of the murders. John wasn't much encouraged by what he saw. Rather than finding a definite pattern, they were finding that each of the murders occurred in a different place.

"This just doesn't make any sense," John said finally and Dean looked up from the report he'd been studying (for the tenth time it seemed) with a sigh.

"I know Dad, I don't get it either," Dean replied.

They were both starting to get worried. According to the pattern, they should expect another murder as soon as the next night. But they still had no idea where the spirit might show up and do the damage.

"Alright that's it," John finally said after they each looked at the reports for another hour. "We're not getting anywhere with this. Let's go see if we can dig up any info on the so-called ghost story."

Dean looked dubious and John didn't miss the look in his eyes.

"Yeah, I know it's a long shot considering everyone in town knows about this thing, it won't hurt to take a look."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Dean pulled up in front of the Victorian house and looked at his father with raised eyebrows.

"You're kidding Dad, right?"

John didn't respond but he had to admit to himself that Dean had a point. When they found the address that matched the article in the newspaper, he hadn't expected this.

The place was a hokey tourist attraction, complete with a huge sign out front inviting people to "Come See the Famous Town Ghost!"

"C'mon, let's check it out." John said and he and Dean walked inside. They paid their five bucks and got the cheap tour, opting not to have a guide. It allowed them to have a closer look at the place and for Dean to surreptitiously check for EMF activity.

John grabbed a brochure and read it as he followed along behind Dean. According to the local legend, an old woman's spirit supposedly haunted the joint. There were reports of flickering lights, cold spots and the occasional missing objects from rooms. All were typical signs of a spirit but all could easily be faked. There was no way to tell yet if they were on to anything.

Keeping themselves as far away from a group of teenage girls out for the afternoon (all of whom had declared loudly that they were DYING to see a "real ghost!"), John and Dean poked around the house. John kept an eye out for anything unusual while he let Dean continue to search with the EMF.

The got all the way to the end of the tour, the last room being the old lady's bedroom, and found a velvet rope blocking it from entry. John waited until the girls had gone back down the hallway and looking around to make sure no one was around, gave Dean a nod.

Dean immediately ducked under the rope with the EMF meter, sweeping the device back and forth and over every inch of the room. Reaching the window and a desk under it, he had just opened his mouth to tell his father that the whole place was a bust when he got a beep.

John saw Dean standing near the desk. Ready to ask what was up, he heard another group coming. He gave a short whistle and Dean was instantly back at his side, just in time as another group of tourists came around the corner to look into the room.

The place must have been nearing its peak time as the hallways were crowded with people as they made their way back down the stairs. They were unable to talk until they finally got into the silence and privacy of the car.

"Well?" John asked. "Did you find anything on the meter?"

"Yep," Dean replied with a grin and before his father could ask anything else had pulled something from his pocket. "This."

John took the object and found himself holding a diary.

------

They took the book back to the hotel. Any other father might have told his son off for stealing something out of a public place like that but not John. He was proud that Dean had thought fast enough to snatch it. Especially after he'd run the EMF meter over it himself. The thing practically crackled, it was so full of energy.

It was official. They were now onto something.

John read the diary while Dean cleaned weapons. The guns didn't really need it but he knew that Dean liked to keep his hands busy and John had no problem letting him do it.

When Dean was done cleaning the guns, he started packing bags of salt for the bows.

John was about halfway through the diary, looking for anything that would give them a clue about the ghosts motives, when he heard a sigh from his son. Looking up he found Dean studying a bag of salt thoughtfully.

"What's up, kiddo?" John asked. He could see Dean was mulling something over.

"Dad have you ever thought there was a better way to do this?" he asked, holding up the bag and the arrow.

"Like what?"

"I don't know……just something. These things have very little range. Too bad we can't figure out how to shoot salt from a gun or something."

John laughed. "Right. I could see it now. We'll take salt, make it into balls, shove it down the barrel and fire. All you'd get is a puff, wouldn't do you much good." He said, going back to the book.

Dean harrumphed, knowing his Dad was right but still thinking that he might be onto something. Finishing the last of the bags, he loaded up the quivers and reached for a shotgun. He'd already cleaned it but he was feeling too antsy to sit still. He unloaded it to clean again.

Lost in thought, he wasn't really paying attention and dropped one of the rounds of buckshot.

"Crap," he said softly, annoyed with himself. Bending over to pick up the round, he was dismayed to find that it had burst onto the floor, spilling buckshot everywhere. Getting down on his hands and knees, he reached under the bed and used his hands to sweep it all up, picking up some dust and dirt inadvertently. Looking at the pile of dirt, dust and buckshot in his hand he shook his head, knowing there was no way to put that back in the round. The thought made him smile, picturing what would happen when a bullet full of dirt hit something.

"Holy crap!" Dean said out loud, dropping the mess into a trash can and turning to his father with a wide grin.

John looked up slightly annoyed, wondering what Dean was up to now. He was trying to get a handle on what the ghost wanted and wasn't interested in any more interruptions.

"What?" John asked, a little testily.

"Sorry Dad," Dean said, not looking even remotely sorry. "But I think I just thought of something."

"What?"

"How to get rocksalt into a gun."

About an hour later, John put down the diary and watched as Dean finished up the last of his little project. With a few pointers from the ex-Marine, Dean soon had something that just might work.

It was ridiculously simple. Dean had just taken a few buckshot rounds, emptied out the metal buckshot and poured in rock salt, carefully tamping it down and putting the round back together. John inspected his work and found the rounds solid enough to fire.

Now they just needed something to use as a test. Good thing John had just the thing.

"Dean," John said after Dean had made about ten buckshot bullets and John had finished reading the diary. "Grab your gear, we're heading out."

Dean didn't pause to question, instead he loaded up his gun, made sure his father's was loaded as well and handed the weapon to him. Then, because they couldn't be sure that the new rock salt round would work, he also loaded them both up with bows, also loaded with salt.

John got behind the wheel and only when they'd been driving for a few minutes did he turn to Dean. He'd been so lost in thought about what he'd found in the diary that he almost forgot to brief his son.

"I found a connection to the deaths and why they keep happening in different places," John said.

"Yeah? What?"

"Here," John said, handing Dean the diary and pointing to a page he had marked. Turning his attention back to the road, he continued.

"Turns out the 'old lady' as this town calls her wasn't all that old. She and her husband died right before their 10th Anniversary."

"Which explains the 10 year lapses between killings." Dean said and John nodded approvingly.

"Right. Take a look at that page of diary though."

Dean pulled his flashlight from his pocket and tucking it under his chin, began to read.

John waited patiently. _Any second now_….he thought.

"No way…" Dean said suddenly.

John laughed. "Now you know where we're headed," he said, putting his foot to the floor and speeding on to their intended location.

----

A little over an hour later, the two men got out of the car and Dean looked around curiously.

"Strange place for a romantic getaway," he said, taking in the barren landscape.

"Yeah well there's no accounting for taste," John replied.

According to the diary, Frances Lunding and her devoted husband Oliver had a "wish list" of places to see on their anniversary, June 21st. It was also the day of the summer solstice, by coincidence and it was that coincidence that had nearly thrown John off the trail.

Before she got married, Frances had been making a list of places to visit before she died. When she and Oliver got married, the young couple had started a family right away. Raising children became more important than the wish list for a few years. Then one day Oliver had announced that he wanted to do something special for their 10th anniversary. Telling his wife she could pick any place on her list for them to visit and he'd make sure they went.

Two weeks before the trip, they'd been killed in a car accident, leaving three orphaned boys. As soon as John had read the whole tragic story in the diary, he knew why none of the hunt had made sense at first.

For nearly two weeks the ghost killed people at various locations on her list every ten years. Now they knew why. Old Frances was apparently not happy that others were enjoying happiness in places that she'd chosen for her special day.

Once John figured it out, he saw the pattern. She went down her list every ten years, going to each place in turn. Sometimes people weren't there and no one was killed. That little fact had made finding the pattern even harder but John remembered all the ghost stories in town. He realized then that Frances was still making her appearances, even if she didn't always kill.

She was one sneaky ghost.

"So we protect this place tonight, make sure no civvies get handed a one way ticket to the next life and then tomorrow we burn her bones, right?" Dean asked, walking around to the back of the car to join his father.

"Yep, that about covers it," John said and the two of them headed off to "number four" on Frances' list. The place had been a popular campground in the late 60's and she had sought its silence and open spaces for a romantic getaway.

"Place reminds me of an old dump," Dean said after he and his father had patrolled the area for a while. Picnic tables could still be seen here and there, though the most prominent sign of its previous life was the garbage. Apparently when the campground had shut down no one thought to clean it up. Either that or people had decided to purposely use it as a dump. It didn't really matter, the result was the same - a big old mess.

John hadn't expected any innocent bystanders to be there that night but he hadn't been able to risk it either. If they'd gone off to burn Frances' bones while someone was visiting the place, they may not have destroyed her spirit in time and someone else would've died.

A little after 3:00am John whistled to Dean, who was on another patrol nearby.

"We done?" Dean asked, trotting up.

"Yeah, no way someone's coming out here now. Let's get back and get some sleep. We can do the rest tomorrow."

"No argument from me there," Dean replied, eagerly walking back to the car.

Neither of them saw the spirit until it was too late.

She went after Dean first. He had just started following his father back to the car when he was thrown into a nearby tree.

Hearing the sounds behind him, John turned just in time to see Dean fly through the air and hit the trunk with a crunch that made his stomach clench. He ran over to his son, checking him anxiously for injuries.

"Dad," Dean tried to warn his father but the spirit was faster. Picking up the elder Winchester, she tossed John like a sack of potatoes. He flew through the branches of one tree, crashing at the base of another. The spirit followed him there and attacked, scratching at him like an animal.

Dean jumped up, grabbing his gun and running towards where his father battled the spirit. Hoping that the new invention worked, he took aim and fired a two rounds loaded with rock salt into the spirit. With a final hiss, she dissipated.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_present…_

John woke up, his arm and shoulder still aching like hell despite the IV drip delivering pain meds at regular intervals. He was surprised to see Dean still asleep in the chair. He'd expected the nurses would've thrown him out sometime in the night.

John smiled to himself. Of course Dean would've managed to sweet talk them into letting him stay. As long as they were female, Dean would've had no trouble doing that at all.

"Hey," John called softly. "Dean, get up."

Dean scrunched up his face, and with a groan opened his eyes slowly. Reaching up with one hand, he massaged the back of his neck.

"Morning Dad," he said with a yawn.

"You alright?" John asked kindly, knowing from a many long nights of his own that hospital chairs were about the least comfortable thing to sleep in that you could imagine.

"Yep, I'm good. You want me to run out and get you some breakfast? Good thing you don't have any diet restrictions with a broken arm and dislocated shoulder, otherwise you'd be stuck with nothing but hospital food." Dean got up and stretched, looking out the window, making sure the Impala was right where he'd left her after dragging his father into the emergency room the previous night.

"Thanks but I have something else I need you to do," John said.

"What?" Dean asked, his attention still partially out the window.

"I need you to finish off that ghost."

John waited for his words to sink and knew they had when Dean became completely still. Slowly turning to his father, he grinned like a kid who'd just gotten the bike he always wanted for Christmas.

"You mean it?"

"Yep."

"Dad. You're…….," Dean paused, looking for the right words. "You're awesome." He finally finished.

John laughed. "Yeah well you might not say that after you have to do all the work by yourself."

---

A few hours later John was sitting in bed, trying to watch the small tv set but too anxious to pay it much attention. He had sent Dean off to research where Frances was buried. Dean had found out without any trouble and also given John the good news that the grave was on private land. Since there would be no other graves and therefore no mourners around to see the desecration, he was going to burn the bones immediately. It was a definite advantage not to have to wait for nightfall.

The sun had nearly set when John's phone finally rang.

"Finally," he muttered, snatching it up from the table.

"Well?" he said tersely, too nervous about his firstborn being on his own, for pleasantries.

"Deep Fried Frances is now being served," Dean replied. He was standing over an open grave, watching the corpse burn and brushing dirt off himself with his free hand.

John breathed a sigh of relief. _One part down, one part to go,_ he thought.

"Good. You know what to do next."

"Yep, I'll call you when I get there." Dean replied then closed his phone and put it back in his pocket. Taking his shovel, he walked quickly back to the car. Pulling out quickly he raced off to the last place on Frances' list. They were nearly sure that Frances' spirit was gone but "nearly" wasn't good enough for John Winchester.

"Nearly" got people killed more times than he could count, before he'd learned that lesson the hard way. Now John made sure, every time, every hunt.

Dean pulled into the parking lot of another camp ground. The difference between this one and the last being that this place was still open. A few RV's were parked around the place, some with tents outside, some tents just on their own.

He hoped the ghost was gone, otherwise he was going to have one Hell of a time keeping an eye on everyone. Finding a spot in the back of the lot, he pulled his bag out of his trunk and returned to the driver's seat. People weren't surprised to see a guy getting some quick shut-eye in a camp ground so close to the highway so no one paid him the slightest attention.

Pulling the rock salt shotgun out of his bag, he laid it on his lap and set out to wait.

---

Dean Winchester never fell asleep on the job……or at least he never had before.

Snorting awake, Dean looked around, his heart pounding in his chest. Something was wrong. He knew it.

Getting out of the car, he heard a scream in the distance. Another scream had woken him up, he knew that now.

"Dammit!" he yelled at himself, taking off at a run towards the source of the sound.

He found the ghost hissing and glaring at a young woman. A man lay at the woman's feet but as Dean ran up he was relieved to see him move. The woman looked like she had screamed everything out of herself and now as the ghost advanced towards her, she could only open and close her mouth silently.

"Get down!" Dean screamed.

The woman practically collapsed on top of her boyfriend and as the ghost turned its attention to Dean, she dragged him out into the woods, headed back in the direction of the parking lot.

The spirit turned towards their noisy exit, hissing again in anger.

"Hey bitch! Don't you wanna play with me instead?" Dean yelled, putting his rifle to his shoulder and firing a round right through the thing.

She dissipated but Dean was surprised when she reappeared only a moment later.

"Crap," he whispered to himself as she headed straight for him. Inside his pocket he heard his phone ringing.

_Dad, _Dean thought_. I'm sorry…._

----

John tried not to worry as Dean's phone rang and rang and then went to voicemail. He worked hard to convince himself that there could be a million and one reasons why that would happen. None of them necessarily had to be bad either. Dean could have left the phone in the car while he patrolled the area. He could have dropped it somewhere and not even noticed that it was gone.

John didn't have as much luck convincing himself of it the second time he called. Again it rang and again Dean's voicemail picked up.

"Okay, that's it," John said, throwing the blankets off and getting out of bed. Luckily the night shift had started and there were only half as many nurses to catch him sneaking out. He fumbled under the bed for the bag Dean had brought him earlier and struggled to get dressed. Putting everything on with one hand was harder than he thought but he was still slipping out a side entrance barely ten minutes later.

A few minutes after that John was in a car he'd hotwired, going for one in the farthest back corner of the lot. He didn't like it but with his son in danger he was capable of doing a lot of things he didn't like.

The sedan threw up rocks and gravel as John skidded into the parking lot of the last location in Frances' diary. Just as he pulled himself out of the car a couple came running out of the woods. The woman was crying and the man was limping but they were alive. John left them to fend for themselves, his mind on his son. He saw the Impala parked nearby but no Dean.

Heading back in the direction from which the couple had come, he ran as fast as his body would let him.

Within minutes he heard a screech coming from deep within the woods. It didn't sound human but it sure as hell sounded pissed. John took that as a good sign. If the spirit was pissed then it meant his son was still in the game.

Through the pitch black John thought he saw light from a fire and surged ahead. He skidded to a stop, shotgun held ready when he saw movement near the fire as he got close. A shadow passed in front of the small blaze, seemingly staggering, then fell.

John's heart fell with it for he knew that the figure had to be his son.

As he ran the last few feet towards the light, John found himself in a clearing. He heard a hissing scream nearby and raised his gun. He got ready to blow the spirit away but paused in shock as she screamed again, twitching in obvious agony. As the fire nearby sputtered, so did the spirit before him. A final burst of flame signaled the end of them both.

Not bothering to wonder what had happened, John turned his attention back to the figure lying a few feet away.

"No," he whispered. He ran to Dean even though his feet wanted to stay where they were, afraid that he was already too late.

"Dad..."

Hardly daring to believe that he'd heard Dean's voice, John fell to the ground beside his son. He pulled Dean's head into his lap and watched as his son's eyes looked into his and then started to close slowly.

"Hey!" John said, gently shaking Dean.

"Dad. It hurts," It was the understatement of the century but the fact that Dean had said it was enough to scare his father. He didn't admit to pain easily, not unless he wasn't hurt at all and was just screwing around to get attention.

"I know, I know," John said placatingly. He could see that the bitch had taken a good swipe at Dean. The younger man's shirt and the flesh beneath it were torn to strips. It was bad but he couldn't let Dean know so went on talking as normally as he could.

"Stop being such a baby, it isn't even that bad," John lied, he lied with all his might.

Times like these John Winchester hated that he had to be tough on his sons. Knowing that his actions would save Dean, he had to continue. The father in him hated it, he really, really hated it.

Looking heavenward and biting back tears he gathered his strength and called out to Dean again - the Marine returning while the father hid away, unable to do what needed to be done.

"Hey!" John called, shaking his son more forcibly. "You listen to me! You're gonna be fine. Now let's get you up and out of here."

No response.

"Dean, listen to me, you're gonna be okay. You're going to be okay!"

It was the closest John Winchester had come to a prayer in a very long time.

He could feel the life leaving his firstborn and John knew what he had to say to bring him back. They were the only words that would mean anything right now.

"Dean! You can't leave! You can't! What about Sam? What is he going to do without you? You have to look out for him remember?"

Just as he knew it would, the last comment brought Dean back. The young hunter's eyes snapped open and he looked at his father.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, I'm here kiddo. Let's get you out of here."

John helped Dean the best he could with his good arm, the two of them grunting and hissing in pain. Then he helped Dean to walk, each of them leaning just as much as the other.

After a long, agonizing walk to the car, John finally got Dean settled into the passenger seat and raced them both back to the hospital.

----

Dean woke up and instinctively reached up to block his eyes from the bright light streaming in through the window. His hands were tangled in something and when he looked down he saw a tube running into his arm. Then he remembered where he was and looked over into the next bed. His father was awake but hadn't noticed that he'd woken up, continuing to stare thoughtfully out the window.

"Dad....I'm sorry....I," Dean began, not sure how he was going to apologize for the stupidity of his mistake.

"It's okay, Dean." John said quietly.

"No it's not, I screwed up. I fell asleep and those people almost..."

"That's right, they ALMOST died. But they didn't and that's because of you. You saved their lives, Dean."

Dean hadn't thought of it that way and paused in surprise. He'd been so sure that a good reaming was coming that he didn't quite know what to do.

"So, you're not pissed?" he asked quietly.

John laughed and finally looked away from the window to regard his son. "Oh, I'm plenty pissed. Next time," he continued. "We'll make sure that you have..."

"Next time?" Dean couldn't stop himself. "You mean you're gonna let me hunt again? Alone?"

"Well, not until I'm sure that I've drilled the hell out of you but yeah, someday I'll let you handle a job on your own again. You did okay, Dean"

John was rewarded with one those grins that reminded him so much of the little boy who used to run around behind him in Scooby Doo pajamas. 

A nurse came in then to check on both of them and once she'd decided that both men were stable, left them alone.

"Hey Dean."

"Yeah?"

"I forgot to ask but how did you get rid of the ghost? I guess burning her bones didn't do it."

"Nope, that just made her really mad," Dean said with a laugh, absently putting a hand to his ribs over the worst of the gashes she had given him.

"So what did you…?" John began.

"Well as she was tearing me up I dropped the diary and that's when it hit me. She had put so much of herself into it. Her dreams, her thoughts, her very soul were such a part of it that I thought maybe it was the diary that was holding her here. So I burned it," he finished with a shrug.

John smiled proudly. "That was a great idea Dean, I couldn't have done better myself."

Dean ducked his head, almost embarrassed at the outright praise that could so rare from his father.

"Yeah well, it was all I could think of at the moment. I'm just glad it worked."

_Me too_, John agreed silently. Thinking of how close he had come to losing his son sobered him for a moment. Then he remembered what he'd been thinking about just before Dean woke up.

"Oh hey, kiddo. Can you hand me the paper over there?" John asked, pointing to the table that was in between them. Dean reached over to the paper and tossed it to his Dad. As he did so, he saw that it was folded open to the classifieds.

"What ya doing Dad, looking for a job?" Dean joked.

"Nope, a truck," John replied, keeping his voice and expression carefully neutral as he studied the paper in front of him. "I want something a little bigger than the Impala and I figure a nice old pick-up will work. I bet I could fit twice as many weapons into the back of one."

Dean's heart sank. "You're getting rid of the Impala?"

John knew that he was enjoying this a little too much but couldn't help but to play with his son a little bit longer.

"I don't know, maybe. Aren't you tired of that old car?"

"No way! Dad, she's a beauty! She's still got plenty of life in her!"

John decided to let Dean off the hook. "Good, I'm glad you think that way. You can have her."

The elder Winchester couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he watched his son try and process that last piece of information. Dean's expression went from anger to disbelief to happiness in the span of about two seconds, flat.

"I can….you mean……she's…." Dean stumbled.

"Yep, she's yours. If you're going to start hunting on your own then you'll need something to drive, right?"

"You got that right!" Dean replied with another high wattage grin. It was returned by a matching one from his father.

The End


End file.
